The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  It was easier to start anew at Rionallís without Hugh’s presence. Yet it took two days before she gathered the courage to enter her former bedchamber.

  Genevieve entered the room with an armful of fresh rushes, hoping to occupy herself with the activity. The maids worked alongside her, and she stacked peat in the hearth to provide a long-burning fire. The heavy loam scent enveloped the room in time, offering comfort.

  She stared at the bed. Nausea twisted at her stomach at the memories it evoked. Hugh holding her down, striking her until she lay still beneath him. Her vision swam, and Genevieve clenched her fingers, fighting the surge of hurtful anger. Hugh had wanted to control her, to make her feel desire for him. He had bragged about his skills, ridiculing her fears and insisting he could make her want him. It was the only reason he had not breached her, though he had come close.

  ‘Are you well?’ a young maid asked her.

  ‘Take the bed out of here. I don’t want to see it again,’ Genevieve said. ‘Burn it, if you like.’

  The girl nodded. ‘I will see it done.’

  ‘Leave me,’ Genevieve ordered. The maids complied, and she stripped the bed of its coverings. One by one she fed them into the fire, watching them erupt in flames before fading into ashes.

  In another few days she had to face her own marriage bed. Though she knew Bevan did not want her, he had to consummate the marriage to make it binding. Her nerves were so tight she closed her eyes to will the fear away. Once, she reminded herself. It need be only once. And she did not believe Bevan would harm her.

  She needed a distraction. Rising to her feet, she left the chamber. Isabel had sent Ewan to keep her company, along with a dozen escorts. Genevieve found him at last in the weaponry room. He held his arm out, as if clutching an imaginary sword. His gaze remained intent upon the ground, his feet moving in intricate patterns while he muttered to himself.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Genevieve interrupted, ‘but what on earth are you doing?’

  Ewan’s gaze darted towards her. ‘Close the door, and I’ll show you.’

  He picked up a sword from the wall and moved to attack an unseen adversary. His feet moved in the same patterns, while his sword arm slashed and parried imaginary blows.

  Genevieve leaned against the wall, watching. ‘Does it work?’

  Ewan shrugged. ‘I practise every night. Some day I shall use my skills on the battlefield.’

  ‘It seems terribly complicated.’

  ‘It is. It takes years of practise.’ Ewan repeated the footwork sequence, his concentration focused on his feet.

  ‘Shouldn’t you look at your opponent?’

  ‘What?’ He lowered his sword. ‘Oh. Well, as soon as I’ve mastered this new pattern I shall.’

  Genevieve let him continue and remarked, ‘I used to watch my brothers practise swordplay when I was younger. They would never let me try.’

  Ewan sent her a doubtful look. ‘The swords are heavy.’

  ‘Aye, they are. But I never saw my brothers watching their feet. They swore that, no matter what, I must always keep my eyes upon my attacker.’

  ‘Bevan says that. I’ve never seen anyone move faster than him. He’s undefeated in battle.’ Ewan gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’ve never won a battle.’

  ‘Neither have I.’ Genevieve smiled at him. ‘But I’d imagine that would come in time.’

  His eyes glittered. ‘I want to be the greatest warrior in all Éireann. I want to be a legend.’

  ‘I think you will be one day,’ Genevieve encouraged. ‘But if it were me, I might look more at my opponent than my feet.’

  Ewan pondered her words. ‘Whenever I fight, my feet tangle up. I thought if I practised my footwork it wouldn’t happen.’

  He adjusted his stance and practised some more. ‘You’re very different from Fiona, you know.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Ewan slashed at the air and stumbled before regaining his footing. ‘She never laughed. Bevan was always trying to make her smile. She didn’t smile often.’

  ‘Don’t you think she was happy here?’

  He shook his head. ‘She would take long walks alone when Bevan wasn’t around. Sometimes she wouldn’t return for hours.’ He lowered his sword and paused for a moment. ‘One night when Bevan was away she didn’t return until the next morn. That was a few weeks before she died.’

  ‘Surely someone went after her?’ Genevieve suggested. ‘Your brother would never have allowed her to be harmed.’

  ‘They didn’t know she was gone. I only knew because I followed her.’

  Genevieve itched to ask where Fiona had gone, but from the masked expression on Ewan’s face she doubted if he would tell her.

  ‘I am glad you are to marry Bevan,’ Ewan said.

  Genevieve was taken aback by his comment. ‘Why do you say this?’

  ‘The way you look at him. You like him more than Fiona ever did.’ He scowled, and Genevieve wondered again what had made him dislike his sister-in-law so much.

  ‘He doesn’t want to marry me,’ she said. ‘He cannot see past my Norman blood.’

  ‘Oh, ’tisn’t that.’ Ewan jabbed the air and stumbled when his footwork caught him off balance. ‘Bevan takes his vows to heart. When Fiona died he swore he’d never wed again. Thinks he’s being faithful to her, he does.’

  She knew Bevan had cared for his first wife, but now she wondered how deep his feelings ran. Was he comparing her to Fiona?

  Genevieve picked up one of the heavy swords from the wall. The unfamiliar weight caused her to tighten her muscles, but she held it. ‘So what would soften your brother towards me?’

  Ewan’s mouth twitched, and he shrugged. ‘You could try pastries or tarts. Especially those with dried cherries or apples. I thought I saw some.’

  Genevieve suspected he spoke more of his own adolescent wishes than his brother’s. She gave him a warm smile. ‘Mayhap you are right.’

  She raised her sword and touched his. ‘You might visit England one day. You could train with some of my father’s knights, should you wish it.’

  He shook his head. ‘My place is here. And now so is yours.’

  Genevieve did not answer. Each day was a battle to drown out the terrible memories. She was grateful for Ewan’s presence. His enthusiasm helped keep her mind off of Hugh.

  She held the sword out towards Ewan. ‘Will you teach me what you know?’

  He gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘Tá. But that won’t take very long.’

  * * *

  Bevan rode among his men, his muscles paining him at the old injury on his shoulder. One night the wound had reopened, but thankfully the bleeding had stopped within minutes of rebinding it. He knew many men who had died from wounds as bad as his. He was grateful that Genevieve had tended it so well.

  At the thought of her, Bevan stiffened. He had been ordered to wed her immediately upon returning to Rionallís. And it seemed necessary for the haste, should Sir Hugh threaten the marriage in some way. Protecting her was foremost in his mind.

  Genevieve’s parents travelled at the back of the entourage, keeping far away from his kinsmen. Bevan had spoken little to them, for the Earl’s wife, Lady Helen, regarded him as the devil incarnate. Longford was more affable, and Bevan detected a note of respect from the man since he had rescued Genevieve.

  Connor rode up to greet him, a few miles beyond the gates of Rionallís. ‘You look as though you are going to meet your executioner,’ he remarked. ‘But I suppose you are getting married.’

  The teasing annoyed him, but Bevan would not rise to the bait.

  ‘I would be happy to take your place with such a one as Genevieve.’ Connor gave a sly grin and drew his horse up alongside Bevan’s. ‘Her lips taste like the sweetness of honey.’

  His fist shot out towards his brother’s jaw, but Connor blocked the blow, laughing. ‘Fear not, brother. You’ll wed her when we arrive.’

  Bevan glared at Connor, jealousy consuming his rational th
oughts. Tá, he had all but pushed her into Connor’s arms, but now he didn’t want any man near her.

  It reminded him of how friendly Fiona had been towards strangers. She had always been kind whenever visitors had come to Rionallís. But when it had been just the two of them she’d seemed to remove herself to some faraway place. Though he had been able to bring her body to a state of ecstasy, her mind he had never been able to touch.

  It seemed that more and more he was remembering his wife’s faults. Why should that matter? She was dead, and they had enjoyed many happy years together.

  He thought of his last embrace with Genevieve. Soon he would have a husband’s right to bed her. She would belong to him.

  That, he decided, was what bothered him. He had been forced into this match, and he didn’t want to dishonour the memory of his first wife with another woman. If he let himself soften towards Genevieve he would betray the vow he’d made upon Fiona’s death.

  Could he touch Genevieve, satisfy his longings, and yet keep himself apart from her? He didn’t know. He desired Genevieve, but she had endured such pain. He did not want her thoughts to linger upon Hugh.

  More than that, he felt guilty for the lust he felt. Every time he saw Genevieve he wanted to caress her softness, to bring her body to a flushed state of fulfilment.

  He dared not risk letting a woman close to him again. Especially not Genevieve, who occupied his mind at every moment, despite his attempts to shut her out. What kind of man could he call himself were he to abandon his vow?

  Straightening his posture, he increased the horse’s gait until Rionallís emerged over the horizon. The snow-encrusted fields would ripen with a golden harvest come the summer. He would add another section to the fortress—one of stone. And as the years passed he would eventually replace all the wood with stone until nothing could destroy it. He envisaged prosperity among the people, close friendships with the tenants upon the land.

  He hadn’t realised he’d missed it. It had been easier to stay with his brother and neglect that part of his life, his former home. Bittersweet memories flooded him as he rode towards the gates. He remembered Fiona waiting for him, standing atop the steps.

  He ached to think she would never be there again, waiting. But Genevieve would await him. And each time he rode back from battle she would be there, as a part of his life.

  He slowed his pace as they drew nearer to the familiar walls. It was as though he could somehow preserve the old memories by not entering the fortress. A few sparse flakes of snow skimmed over the wind, settling upon his gloves before fading into nothingness.

  With a silent farewell to all that had been, he rode through the gates towards a new future.

  * * *

  Genevieve raised a sword to block Ewan’s blow. Her grip had grown stronger, but she winced at the arm-numbing contact. Over the past few days she had spent her afternoons with Ewan, letting him teach her the art of swordplay. She knew almost nothing about it, but she enjoyed the exercise. It also gave Ewan a sense of pride to show off his skills, particularly when he was far better than herself.

  He had also revealed more about Bevan. From the way he spoke of his elder brother, she knew he both worshipped Bevan and was jealous of him. It seemed that he wanted to be exactly like his brother in every way.

  ‘Except I would never marry,’ he said now, sheathing his weapon when their sparring match had finished.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I’ve no need to marry. I have little of my own, save a few head of cattle.’

  As the youngest son, his inheritance would be the smallest of the brothers, Genevieve realised. Here it seemed that cattle and sheep, rather than coins, measured a man’s wealth.

  ‘Wouldn’t Patrick grant you a portion of land?’ she asked. ‘Or could you not buy your own?’

  ‘They want me to become a priest,’ he said. ‘But I’ve no wish for that lifestyle.’ His expression grew thoughtful. ‘I’ll fight as a mercenary, like Bevan, and save my earnings. Then it might be that I could afford some land of my own.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t want sons to inherit the land?’ Genevieve prompted. ‘Surely you would want a wife for that?’

  His face reddened, and he withdrew his sword once more, practising lunges. ‘They laugh at me, the girls do. They know I cannot fight.’

  The embarrassment on his face made her want to box the ears of such foolish girls. ‘Then you must find a woman who knows your true worth inside.’

  Ewan said nothing, but went back to his practising. Genevieve knew he wanted to be alone, and so she withdrew from the weaponry room.

  In the Great Chamber below, she tried to occupy herself with her needle. Her fingers moved across the linen, the row of even stitches belying the nervousness she felt. She wished she had her psaltery, to lose herself in music.

  Ewan was right. Bevan would return soon, and their marriage would take place.

  Her needle moved across the linen as she visualized his face in her mind. Unbidden came thoughts of his kiss, and the way he had touched her.

  Did he have any feelings for her at all? If he did, she sensed he fought them. According to Ewan, Bevan’s loyalty to his first wife transcended anything he might feel for Genevieve.

  And therein lay another problem: Ewan’s dislike of Fiona and the strange details Genevieve had learned bothered her. All her instincts warned her that Fiona had held secrets—ones that Bevan knew nothing about. The one that bothered her most was Ewan’s claim that Fiona had left the fortress more than once, not returning until morning.

  There was no plausible reason for it save one: infidelity. Genevieve knew Bevan had loved his wife completely. But would he still grieve for her if he knew the truth?

  In her heart, she realised that she could never be the one to reveal such secrets. What good would it accomplish? It would only turn Bevan against her. Silence was the best course of action. She wanted to win his heart, but not at the cost of destroying his memories.

  Loud voices interrupted her thoughts. Genevieve turned and saw her mother entering the Great Chamber. A smile of joy broke across Genevieve’s face. ‘Mother!’ Rising to her feet, she ran to embrace Helen.

  Tall and slender, Lady Helen de Renalt wore her dark hair concealed beneath a veil. Genevieve knew her mother used plant dyes to prevent the silver strands along her temples. Fine age lines edged the corners of her eyes and mouth—lines that curved upwards at the sight of her daughter.

  Her mother hugged her tightly. ‘Tell me what has happened.’

  Genevieve explained, but could not keep the bitterness from her voice when she spoke of the beatings.

  ‘Only one missive arrived—a short time ago,’ Helen admitted. ‘Had it not been for his illness, I am certain your father would have come for you sooner.’ Her face was filled with regret. ‘And it was our fault for sending Sir Peter of Harborough and his wife. They are friends of ours, but I suppose Hugh deceived them.’

  ‘Sir Peter believed Hugh’s lies that I deserved punishment. He did nothing to stop him.’

  ‘I am sorry, daughter.’ Helen touched her face tenderly. ‘’Tis a good thing Hugh and Peter are already gone, for I would likely flay them both alive. Your father will have words with Sir Peter, of that you can be sure.’

  Never one to dwell on unpleasant matters, Helen changed the subject. ‘I want to know about this Bevan MacEgan. Do you truly wish to wed him?’ Her mother spoke of the matter as though Genevieve had volunteered to throw herself from the top of a tower.

  Hedging, she said, ‘He is a good man, and a fine warrior, but his heart will always be with his first wife.’

  Helen sighed. ‘I did not ask about his heart, Genevieve. This is a marriage, not a love ballad.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I am not certain you do. I know the King wanted you to wed Sir Hugh, but he was not your only suitor. We could have wed you to any number of men. Had you been thinking with your head, you might not have ended up where you did.’ Helen add
ed, ‘And I am not certain marriage to this Irishman is a good idea at all.’

  ‘Bevan is a strong protector, Mother,’ she argued.

  ‘But can you endure living here in Erin with him?’ Helen glanced around, as though she would rather be dead than dwell here.

  Genevieve hid her smile. She had grown to love Erin and its green hills. She found it no hardship to live in a wild land filled with untamed beauty. ‘I can.’

  Helen continued voicing her opinions on marriage, but Genevieve had stopped listening. Her gaze moved towards the entrance to the Great Chamber.

  A small group of soldiers entered the room, followed by Bevan. He stood, awaiting her.

  ‘Mother, pray excuse me for a moment.’

  Helen turned and frowned. ‘I am not certain about this man, Genevieve. He is little more than a barbarian.’

  ‘Go, Mother. Please,’ Genevieve said. ‘I would speak with him alone.’

  Helen began to shake her head, but Bevan stepped forward. With a dark glare to Helen, he commanded, ‘Leave us.’

  Her mother stiffened. ‘I shall stand over by the fire. If you have need of me I will—’

  ‘Mother—’ Genevieve warned. ‘Go to my chamber above. I will speak with you there later.’

  With a shake of her head, Helen left. Genevieve lifted her gaze to Bevan. ‘I am sorry about this. I never meant to—’

  He stepped forward, so close to her that Genevieve could feel his breath upon her face. His nearness disconcerted her, but she struggled to hold her ground. Her warrior’s green eyes glinted with a firm resolve. Reaching up, she touched the fresh scar on his cheek. ‘Your wound is healing well.’

  He covered her fingertips with his own. His voice was a deep baritone as he leaned in. ‘The marriage will take place today.’

  She knew how much he didn’t want to wed her. It hurt more deeply than she had imagined.

  ‘Why did you change your mind?’ she asked.

  He did not respond, but said firmly, ‘I am holding you to your promise. After the wedding, we lead separate lives.’